The Button
by AdventuresAtHogwarts
Summary: John Watson has had difficulty acclimating to life without Sherlock for the past 3 years. Suddenly while at work a familiar pink phone shows up at his desk and before he knows it the detective is back in his life! John struggles to tell Sherlock everything he's wanted to and Sherlock becomes increasingly conflicted while solving a difficult case, impairing his judgement. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

_The wind whipped across Dr. John Watson's face as he desperately attempted to comprehend what the man on the other end of the phone was saying. His friend liked to speak in riddles. This was just another one of his puzzles, right? One of these days he'd be able to decipher the meaning of this sick enigma._

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" the voice asked in a tone that John never thought he'd hear in it. Though he had heard it like this, every night for the past three years. That voice… which was always so sure, so sound, was laced with intermittent quavers that shook John to his core, leaving his stomach aching and weighing his heart down. This never got easier. Maybe this time… The man on the roof St. Bart's hospital, his closest friend, stared down at him and, once eye contact was established, the situation became so much more __**real**__. This couldn't be a memory. This is happening now._

"_Do what?" This was going too far. John knew this man. He wouldn't. More than that, he couldn't. Not to him. 'Oh, dear God,' he thought, 'Just don't do this to me. Not again. Please tell me what an idiot I am and that I've dreamt up the past three years suffering. Just please give me this. There is so much I need to tell you.'_

_His silent pleads were to prove futile as the voice, in the same unusual tone as before responded, "This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_John's mind stopped working. His heart began to race. He decided to play his part, like he did every other night. "Leave a note when?" he asked, knowing the answer and simultaneously realizing he wouldn't be told it, as his friend knew full well that John had already grasped the situation, or at least had begun to. John watched and listened in horror as the man on the roof, still looking right at him, took in his final breath for what felt like the millionth time._

"_Goodbye, John."_

"_No. Don't – " John began but it was too late. The man stepped off the rooftop and fell gracefully into the street below as Watson ran towards him in vain, wondering if maybe this time he could do something to save him. But it was all for naught as his best friend's body hit the ground once more, as John cried out –_

"SHERLOCK!" John wrenched himself from his bed, drenched in cold sweat. He was still breathing heavily as he hadn't quite left the dream yet. As soon as he regained his composure, his alarm went off. _Time to get ready for work_. Throwing his feet over the side of his bed, John grabbed his cane and limped off to the washroom in order to ready himself for the coming day. His limp, though absent during his time with Sherlock, slowly began to reappear after the detective's….

Per usual, John made sure to check Sherlock's bedroom on the way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Strictly speaking, the bedroom wasn't exactly conveniently located on a path that lead to that room, rather John made it a point to walk across the flat every day to peek into the detective's old room out of some mad hope that he had simply waltzed in during the night. John already had the entire situation planned out in his mind. His friend would be sitting on the left side of his bed, the side closest to the window, and he would have his violin case sitting on his lap. He would then begin to take the violin out of the case, pretending he didn't notice John standing in the doorway. Then, as if nothing had changed, Sherlock would begin to pull the violin out of the case and say in an offhand tone, "You know, John, most people knock." John would be angry of course, but his anger would be short lived due to the pure joy he would feel at his friend's return. The floor creaked underneath his cane. John reached the door and immediately noticed there was something different about it. The door was shut. Out of expediency, John never shut the door. He caught his breath. He didn't want to get his hopes up, though of course it was already too late for that. John's hand gripped the cold, metal knob and slowly turned it and, still not breathing, gave the door a gentle push.

Nothing.

Not that he should've been expecting much. In all seriousness, it was entirely likely that Mrs. Hudson, who was growing a distaste for unclosed doors, shut it on her way out yesterday after having tea with John. Still, it was an enormous disappointment. John bit his lip out of sadness and a was ashamed for having been so silly as to actually think he'd see his old friend just sitting on his bed or taking out his violin. _You watched him jump, you idiot, _he thought to himself, _why can't you just give up already?_

He continued into the kitchen and made a breakfast he would barely eat, dreading the day to come. Life had become so monotonous lately. Workdays, he'd get up, check Sher… check _his_ old room, make breakfast, go to the medical clinic down the street and work all day, then get off in time for dinner and occasionally a drink with Lestrade or Molly. On his days off, John would spend most of his day reading through his old friend's books or cases. Painful as it was, it helped keep him alive and validate his stance that, for whatever reason, the detective lied when he said he made everything up. That it was just another one of his riddles. Once he was done with that, he would usually spend some time with Mrs. Hudson or one of his few other friends. He ended his therapy sessions ages ago seeing as they obviously weren't helping. John couldn't even keep up his old blog anymore as it was just another painful reminder of what had come to pass.

John checked the time on the clock to the left of him. 7:35. He had 20 minutes to get to work so he'd have the additional five to get ready in his office. Plenty of time. John dumped his half-eaten toast into the garbage on the way out and stepped out into the busy London streets.

"_Doctor Watson, you have another appointment in 10 minutes," _Sarah's voice said through his earpiece. John sighed and looked at the clock impatiently. Must've been a walk in. His last scheduled appointment ended about five minutes ago, and John was mildly enjoying the idea of being able to go through some of the final paperwork for the day in hopes that he might be able to go home on time for once. At least this one would be the last one of the day.

"Who is it?" he asked, and, noting the annoyance in his voice, added in a much kinder tone, "if you don't mind me asking."

There was a slight pause and then the earpiece began to make noise again. "_It's a… Sally. Sally Donovan. Didn't you and that fake detective friend of yours work with her once upon a time?"_

John pursed his lip and took a deep breath before responding. The last thing he needed was to be put on an unpaid leave or 'vacation' for badmouthing his boss. "We've talked about this, Sarah. He wasn't a fake. You of all people should know that and above all I refuse to believe that. Besides. His name is in the process of being cleared as we speak." He sighed. "Send her in now, I'm not working with anybody at this moment."

"_Will do."_ Good. John would rather get this one over with. Sergeant Donovan and him never got along and their relationship became basically nonexistent and yet somehow still incredibly negative the past three years. John waited a few more minutes and then headed over to the room he was sure they sent Sally, sure at this point the nurse had completed recording basic preliminary things such as temperature, weight, and blood pressure.

Watson plastered a fake smile on his face and opened the door, walking in at a mild pace. "Sergeant Donovan!" he said in a friendly tone. "It's been a while since I've seen you. Which, considering the fact that I'm a doctor and don't really head to the Yard all that often anymore, is probably a good thing. So what's got you feeling out of sorts?" He could tell he didn't sound like himself at all, though he doubted Donovan would notice at all.

Sally attempted a small smile but was unsuccessful. She swallowed and winced in pain. "Well, I've been having this really sore throat for a while now but I don't think it's strep because I don't see any sores… and – "

"Sores don't always appear with strep throat, Sally."

"I know. And I've just been feeling exhausted _all the time._ I know my job doesn't give me the normal number of hours the average person needs to sleep, but this started happening out of nowhere. Suddenly, about a week ago, I just felt so weighed down all the time, as if somebody was draining me of my energy. It didn't matter when I went to sleep or how long I slept… I was just always tired."

"I see," John said as he scribbled some things down on his notepad. "Anything else?"

"This might be unrelated, but I've been having quite a few headaches. Migraines, really. They last for a while."

"Any fever?"

"One about a week ago, but it didn't last."

John finished writing down what she was saying and then took a deep breath. "Sally, I'm going to do a swab test to see if you have strep throat. However, I'm unconvinced that that's what you're going through. It's most likely that you have a mild case of mononucleosis. Are you in a relationship with anybody at this moment who may have passed this onto you?"

Sally blushed. "No, I wouldn't say that…."

"Sally, I need you to be honest here. Mono can lead to serious health implications later in life if it isn't detected, even if the person that gave it to you was just a carrier. Sally. I'm asking you this not just as a doctor, but as someone who knows a bit about your personal life." John knew that he was overstepping his bounds, but she now understood what he was implying. That Lestrade didn't need to lose _two_ detectives right now.

"If you're insinuating what I think you are… then yes, okay? The freak was right. But anybody could've guessed that, so don't you start thinking that it means anything else than the fact that he was guilty of lying about everything else and got lucky once." She looked guilty as she said this, and couldn't look into John's eyes. John decided he was going to ignore the majority of that explanation. He was done mentioning that Sherlock's name was being cleared to everybody. He didn't have to justify it. He knew the truth.

"Okay. Let's just hope this strep test comes back positive." He swabbed her throat and told her it would be about twenty minutes, then left to give the sample to the lab.

John then headed to his personal office to check his email. He opened the door and sank down into his chair, having lost all motivation to try to complete his final paperwork early. He was so exhausted and his office was so disheveled he almost didn't notice the little pink spot out of the corner of his eye.

_No._

John straightened up and grabbed the pink object fast as he could, turning it over in his hands. _But… it can't be._

It was _the_ phone. The pink lady's phone. The phone that Sherlock had John send a text to on their first case together. The phone that Moriarty copied and called Sherlock on to have his victims, strapped to bombs, speak for him and give riddles that needed to be solved if a person's life was to be saved. The phone that John had been searching for ages as it never turned up in any of Sherlock's stuff, though Lestrade swore he didn't have it in the evidence archives.

John pressed the home button on the bottom of the phone and watched the screen light up only to be met with extreme frustration and agitation. Of course it was locked. Then, his paranoia began to get to him. Sergeant Donovan comes for an appointment and all of a sudden an iPhone with a pink case resembling the first solved mystery between the duo shows up? John couldn't accept this as a coincidence. He knew it was about ten minutes too early and he wouldn't have any results to share with Sally, but gripping the pink phone case in his right hand he marched over to the room she was in.

"Is this a joke?" he demanded as he closed the door and held up the phone. "I mean really. Is this some sort of cruel experiment you guys are doing, you and Anderson? Because it's not funny." Johns eyes stung but he held the tears back.

"What…do you mean? What is that?" Donovan's voice was filled with genuine curiosity and confusion. She clearly didn't even recognize the phone. John softened his expression and instead looked at her in desperation.

"Do you remember when London was being plagued by all of those 'serial suicides'? It turned out to be the work of a murderer?"

"Yeah, that was almost four years ago. The guy got shot. Never found the man who did it, but I'd like to give him a handshake."

"That was the first case that Sherlock and I worked together. And do you remember what he deduced the murderer must have on his person, the same item that I traced in order to find where he was?"

"It was a… Is that the phone? Why isn't that in evidence at the station?" Donovan looked sincerely concerned at this point.

"Sherlock… commandeered it after the case was closed. He said he wanted to keep it for whatever reason. Something about being annoyed at some people on the force and not believing he should have to listen to their instructions. I told him to give it back. He said he did but I always doubted it. Funny thing, though. I asked Lestrade about six months ago if I could see it back at the station and he said it wasn't in evidence. So I checked everywhere on the flat and it wasn't there either. All of a sudden, you show up for an appointment and this shows up on my desk."

The earpiece John was wearing went off. "_John, the sample you left at the lab is done."_

"Excuse me," he said to Sally as he left ignoring her plea for him to wait a moment. He stopped by the surveillance room on the way out and asked if it would be alright for him to check the tapes for the camera by his personal office. The security guard played them. Initially, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then John noticed there were two small _blips _in the tape during his initial time with Miss Donovan, the second occurring about 45 seconds after the first. The guard didn't notice anything and told John he must have left the phone there months ago and had simply forgotten about it. John had a sinking feeling with his stomach accompanied with the juxtaposition of a swelling of his heart. _What if…._

_No. You can't think like that._ He left quickly and got the results from the lab, reading them on the way to Sally's room, grimacing at the results.

He opened the door calmly and cleared his throat. "Good news and bad news."

"Good news first."

"You don't have strep."

"Bad news?"

"You don't have strep."

Sally laughed and looked horrified at the same time, and John joined in with her. It was only as he began to explain the next course of action that he realized he left his cane in his office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

John asked Sally to take a blood test so they could check for mono. He told her he would be in touch with her as soon as he knew the results, which was likely to be tomorrow morning. She thanked him and started to leave, giving him a small, sad smile.

"You know," she said, "I don't blame you for thinking it was me that put the phone there. But I stand by what I always used to say. He's a psychopath. I never bought into the media's whole 'fake genius' bit. You'd have to be a genius just to come up with a system like that. But I do stand by what I said about him putting the bodies there. Be that as it may… you watched him jump off of a bloody building. Whoever put that phone there, it wasn't him. It couldn't be." John knew that was the closest to an apology he was ever going to receive from her, so he just smiled as best he could in return and said goodbye, repressing his urge to ask her whoever said anything about it being _Sherlock_ who put the phone there.

John headed back to his office to file that last bit of paperwork and lock up. He haphazardly shoved some of the loose packets and sheets into some folders on his desk. Organizing them would have to happen tomorrow. John couldn't handle doing any extra work at this time. All he wanted to do was to go home and try and unlock this phone. He then grabbed his coat, shoved the pink phone into his pocket, and locked up.

He didn't bother getting a taxi home. He rarely did. 221B was only about 15 minutes away from the medical clinic by walking, so sometimes it was, in fact, faster than getting a taxi. Tonight happened to be a particularly busy night in London, so this qualified for the above scenario. This way he was also given an opportunity to clear his mind in the crisp night air. John pulled out the phone again and stared at the number pad on the lock screen.

He didn't even know where to begin. If Sherlock had planted the phone there, then the password would be incredibly simple, something even somebody like John could guess. Something that was likely personal between, the two of them only. If, however, the phone was put there by somebody else, perhaps somebody who used to work for Moriarty, the phone was likely to have an overly complex password that John would never guess or an _overly _simple password, such as 1234, that John would also never guess. John sat there and contemplated several possible combinations of numbers. This puzzle was reminding him of so many adventures he had with Sherlock. He was practically able to smell him in the air around himself. He bumped into somebody and muttered an apology, but kept walking, staring at the screen.

Upon reaching his destination, John shouted upstairs. "Mrs. Hudson! Has anybody come by today looking for me?"

"How should I know? I do have a life you know. Just earlier I was at the baker's and – Oh! But there was that one thing. I almost chucked it out. There was an unmarked envelope underneath the door earlier. I opened it and I found a strange little button inside."

"A button."

"Yes, would you like to see it?" Mrs. Hudson seemed perplexed as to why John would be so interested as mundane as a button. When John nodded, she said, "This way," and, upon noticing John wasn't using his cane, mentioned, "I'm glad you've gotten over that leg of yours, sweetie. Did anything interesting happen at work today?"

"No. I mean yes, something did happen. Where's this button again?" She opened a drawer and pulled out a small plastic bag, the type that extra baubles are placed in on clothing in the case of the original item falling off. John opened the bag with eager fingers and dumped the button onto his palm. At first, he didn't see anything special about it and assumed the two incidences (the one of the phone and the one of the button) were unrelated. Then, upon further inspection, he realized he'd seen this button before and others like it. But it had been so long he almost didn't recognize it.

Mrs. Hudson must've noticed the look of shock on his face because she asked, "Is something the matter, Dear?"

"No, no, everything's…everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you." John clenched the button in his hand and added, "I must be going upstairs now. It's been a long day. Goodnight." He ran upstairs so fast he barely heard her offers to speak if anything was the matter. He sat down on the couch and pulled out the phone again, placing the button on top of it. But this wasn't just any button. This was the exact likeness of the buttons that were on Sherlock's coat. Was this a hint to the password? John placed the button to the side and picked up the phone again, this time trying a few combinations.

"221B." – _Locked _

"COAT" (2628) – _Locked_

"JUMP" (5867) – _Locked_

"PINK" (7465) – _Locked_

John was having trouble thinking of other options. "HOUND" was too long.

"GAME" (4263) – _Locked _

He swore loudly. One more shot and then the phone would lock up. There was one other possibility. The button and the phone could be related events, but not in the way John initially thought. What if the button was supposed to be found _in response to_ whatever was on the phone? Besides that, the phone case itself had been a reference to an old case of theirs, so why wouldn't the password also be connected to a case? _Think, _he ordered himself. _Really think_. There was another time Sherlock and John came across an iPhone while working together, while solving the case of Irene Adler. She kept Sherlock out of the phone by using his name as the password. Then John took a deep breath and punched in the four numbers he had wanted to all along but was scared what would happen if it did open the phone and scared what it would mean if they didn't. "Here goes nothing," he whispered to himself.

"JOHN" (5646). _Click._ The lock screen disappeared and John was allowed access to the phone. It informed him that he had one text message. Eagerly he opened his messages and read what was left for him.

Mrs. Hudson didn't close that door earlier.

Good catch, you're getting sharper.

Coming home soon.

SH

The phone fell out of John's hand and he bolted into the detective's old room, thinking _fat chance_ in regards to the latter message. Standing in the doorway, John looked around the room, committing himself to noticing everything about the room to see if anything at all was different. More importantly, he had to wonder how Sherlock was getting in _if _he was getting in. Which, John tried to remind himself, was still a big_ if_ seeing as he saw him jump off of the hospital building. He doubted Sherlock would still have his old keys to the flat…but of course. The window. Right outside Sherlock's window was a small staircase in case of a fire. John ran over to the window and opened it. For something that shouldn't have been opened for just about three years, it moved rather smoothly. Feeling something wet on his fingers, John looked down and saw an oily substance on his hand. Whoever came through the window (John was reminding himself that it was a small chance that this was actually Sherlock) came recently and used oil to make sure it wouldn't squeak. So… It was probably at night, then, when someone would have been sleeping.

John backed up and tried to think about possible explanations as to who this could reasonably be, but he could barely think as he was so hungry. He decided it was about time to get a bite. He considered making something in the kitchen, but he doubted much of anything he still had was still edible, let alone tasty. So he grabbed his coat, headed out into the night once more, and hailed a taxi, phone in hand.

There was a little Italian café a couple of blocks from Baker Street. He and Sherlock had eaten there a couple of times, and the incident with the phone was making him feel nostalgic and, despite his hunger, slightly nauseous. He began to feel anger towards the situation. Why not just show up and tell John he was back? Why go through this painfully unnecessary process of the phone and the text message and the door? But it was more than that. The vocabulary in the text message was so… unremorseful. And more than that, it had a tone which suggested that its sender expected everything to return to normal upon his return.

When he arrived at the café, he paid the driver and, just looking up, saw across the street his best friend. The detective. His Sherlock. They locked eyes and the man across the street turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could the opposite direction. John raced after him in return, almost getting hit by two cars on the way across. He made it across the street just in time to see Sherlock bolt into a shady alleyway. He followed suit. Dead end. _Damn it all,_ John thought. He almost wrote it off as being a figment of his imagination sparked by the incident with the phone, when suddenly he noticed a staircase that could be pulled down from above. It was high up, too high for John, but he climbed on top of a garbage can and, barely maintaining balance, gripped the bottom stair and yanked it from above. He climbed onto the staircase and walked up hesitantly.

John was at the top of the stairs when reality hit him. He was on the top of a staircase in the middle of an _alley_ because he _thought _he saw his best friend, who happened to be _dead_ run into it. This was madness! He almost turned around when his body was suddenly filled with anger. Tears, like a million tiny daggers, stung his eyes. He knew at that point he had to keep going. Because when he caught up to Sherlock, _if_ he caught up to Sherlock, he was going to give him an earful.

Lifting one leg up slowly, as if he still wasn't completely sure if he was going to continue onward, John took his first step off the top of the stairs and looked at the door to his left. It was metal and had a bar in the middle that could be pushed to allow entry. The paint was chipping off. There was no keyhole, so if the door could be locked it would have to be done from the inside. Tentatively, John placed his hands on the metal rod and pushed.

It was the back room of a shop. A rather new-age shop specifically, John noted as he saw the items in crates around him. He was simply surrounded by boxes upon boxes of Tarot card decks and crystals, books on psychic development, and the smell of incense. John stepped through another door which he presumed led to the main section of the store.

The store was abandoned, save a man behind a dirty counter in the right corner of the store by the front entrance. If anyone recently left, this man would've noticed. John walked towards the man and cleared his throat. The cashier looked up.

"Yes. Er, I'm sorry. You wouldn't have happened to have seen a tall guy in a dark pea coat with black, curly hair, would you? He would've run through just a moment ago, actually. The collar on the coat would've been turned up. He thinks it looks cool." John rolled his eyes at the last bit. The man behind the counter smiled.

"Yeah, he just ran through here. He was rather out of breath. He's not in any trouble, is he?"

John repressed his immediate urge to smile. _He was back!_ This meant that he wasn't crazy. But it also meant that Sherlock had lied to him for _three__ years._ Had let him suffer for _three__ years_ believing that his best friend was never coming back. And that realization quashed all the previous happiness that he had felt. John was left with a feeling of bitterness and hurt, which allowed him to respond to the cashier.

"That depends," John said dryly. "Do you remember which way he went?"

"Well, honestly I didn't think it was any of my business. But he did tell me something. What's your name?"

"John. John Watson."

"I'm supposed to tell you to check your pockets?" The man said this sentence as a question, as if unsure what kind of person would waste time leaving a message like that cryptically with a cashier at a crystal shop. Obediently, John shoved his hands into his pockets, not really expecting anything to turn up, but then, in his right pocket he pulled out a dirty, hastily folded piece of notebook paper. He opened it up and swore aloud.

Really, John. Look up when you're walking.

You never know who you might bump into.

SH

"I'm gonna kill him. I'm really going to kill him. Sorry about this," he directed to the cashier. "Thank you for … you know. Have a good day."

"Sir, is everything alright?"

"Yeah. I've just. I've got to go."

John ducked out of the store. Suddenly, he lost his appetite. He had flat out _ran into him_ earlier. More than that, he had recognized his smell and he _still_ didn't look up from that stupid phone!

John got back onto the main road and got a taxi. Normally, he would feel as if this journey was wasted, but in truth, it hadn't been. No matter how soon from now Sherlock would show his face, he was still given proof that he was alive. It didn't matter how angry John was at Sherlock right now... his anger at this moment was a truthfully trivial matter. He would get over it eventually. Not many people get a second chance to say the things he'd wanted to. Most people didn't come came back from the dead, either. But Sherlock couldn't necessarily be classified as "most people."

When he arrived back at the flat, the doctor ran upstairs and made a cup of tea in an attempt to smooth his nerves. _Sherlock was back! _he kept thinking. But how was he going to find him? It didn't appear to John that Sherlock wanted to be found, with the running away and all. _But,_ he reminded himself, _he has been in the flat lately._

So block his entrance then. He rooted around the flat until he found some duct tape. John also grabbed some cleaner and tissues to clean up the oil the detective had been previously using to smooth his entry. He then bolted into Sherlock's room and shut the window using said tape, making a point to clean off the oil first to assure the tape would stick easily. He was sure to tape not only the bottom down, but the sides, too. _Not coming back tonight, _John thought, smirking_. Not unless you go through the front door._ He knew he looked like a madman right now, but frankly, he was tired of Sherlock's games. He was going to ensure that the next time Sherlock Holmes wanted to tamper with his life, he was going to have to either text him again or do it in person. As he was turning to leave Sherlock's room, however, he dropped his mug and it shattered onto the floor, breaking into a million pieces, the glass forming tiny constellations on the floor and spilling scalding hot tea all over the place.

"Hello, John."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"_Hello, John."_

The impossible man stared at him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. He was wearing a white button down shirt underneath a black, two-button jacket. He was also wearing a pair of narrow-legged black pants. His usual suit. It was as if he had never left. There was the tiniest smirk on his face as if he found John's actions amusing. "Is there any particular reason you're putting duct tape on my window?" he asked in a voice that was obviously repressing laughter.

John couldn't answer. He didn't have control over his body. In three short strides he was right in front of the detective.

And, to welcome him home, John swung his arm back and punched him in the face. An object fell out of Sherlock's hand and spilled out onto the ground. John looked down and noticed it was a jug of milk. The contents slowly creeped towards the spilled tea until the two met and became one large mess in the middle of the room. Somehow, though they were one large puddle in a place they were unwanted, the two substances mixing together like that looked _right_. John hadn't had milk in his tea in what seemed like forever, so seeing them together like that reminded him of what he had been missing and how perfect the two went together. John peered back up at the detective, unsure of what to say.

Sherlock saved him from having to say anything. He acted unchanged by John's strike, although it was evident by his eyes that Sherlock was not expecting this reaction. "I thought I'd pick up some milk on the way home," he said in an offhand tone. There he was again. Pretending that nothing had happened, that no _time_ had passed. That John hadn't been coming home to Baker Street every night for the past _three years_ alone because of his best friend's death.

"Milk. You got milk."

"Obviously."

"Well. That's excellent. You know, I've got about a million questions buzzing through my head. Like, _how are you alive_ for starters. And _why haven't you contacted me?_ Oh, and my personal favorite. What, on God's green earth, possessed you to think that this stupid game with the phone –" he held it up " – was a good idea. But, you know. We have milk. So, obviously, everything is okay now. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. You've managed to fix everything with milk. Another miracle." His tone was bitter and his eyes were stone cold as they stared right into the detective's. More than that, it was hostile. Unwelcoming. Under normal circumstances, John would've seen this as something to be changed, however in this situation he deemed it fitting.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John interrupted him, looking down. "No, you know what, Sherlock? It's fine. It's all fine. Because even though I've spent the past three years hating myself, wondering if I missed something, if there was some way I could have saved you and I just didn't see it…." John sighed, unsure of what to say next. "I'm going to get a broom," he muttered. "And some towels." He started to leave the room, when suddenly Sherlock spoke.

"John," he said in a soft tone. "Wait." His voice was practically a whisper. The intimacy of such a quiet exchange froze John in his steps, forcing him to look back up to Sherlock. His eyes, filled with intensity and what appeared to be an attempt at empathy held him there like an anchor. "I'll explain everything. I promise. Everything."

John was unimpressed. "Right. Well. Towels." He left, this time paying no attention to Sherlock's second and much louder mention of his name. He moved mechanically, trying his best to ignore what every instinct in his body was demanding he do – run back there and tightly squeeze Sherlock to his body. Make sure he was real. That this wasn't a dream. And, most importantly, to _never_ let him leave his sight again. He had been having daydreams of this moment for ages. But that's all they were – daydreams. Dead men don't just jump out of their graves and begin walking again. John knew that that's not exactly what happened, but honestly, it didn't matter what _had_ happened. What mattered was that Sherlock had left him for three years. If he didn't want to be around John, that was fine. He could learn to live with that. But at the same time, couldn't he at least give John the courtesy of _telling him that_ as opposed to elaborately faking his death? And why return? The same questions kept repeating themselves in his head, and while he was sure he would receive the answers eventually, eventually wasn't good enough. He deserved those answers from the start and he was done waiting.

Yet John knew that he couldn't stay mad at Sherlock forever. He cared about him far too much. Even though Sherlock had seemingly willfully deceived him for three years and had given him an asinine puzzle with the phone and _all the rest _that had happened… John understood that deep down, he had already forgiven him. Sherlock's mere presence was almost enough to make up for what he had done, and the rest, John assumed, would come with time. Besides, Sherlock had already paid some of his penance when John struck him across the face.

While in the kitchen, John picked up the towels and the broom and headed back as quickly as he could, worried that when he returned Sherlock wouldn't be there. He was practically jogging back until he saw Sherlock's slim form still leaning in the doorway, at which point he cleared his throat and slowed down to a purposeful walk, staring straight ahead the whole time.

John had hoped that Sherlock would remain silent, but he clearly had other plans. As John was bending down to begin soaking up the spilled liquid, Sherlock insisted, "Here, allow me," and gently but firmly removed the cloths from John's grip. John straightened up and watched Sherlock mop up the mess in a way that could only be described as fluid and elegant. When he was done, John began to push the broken pieces into one big pile so he could sweep them away. He noticed that, in the wreckage, a few of the glass pieces formed an almost exact likeness to the constellation Lepus and almost smiled at the memory of realizing Sherlock knew barely anything regarding astronomy, which almost lead to the death of a child. After that case, Sherlock made a point to rent books upon books on the subject, but he soon became bored as most of it was based on theory instead of fact. John finished sweeping and bent over to gather the shards onto a tray so that he'd be able to throw them out. He was thankful that he and Sherlock had worked silently on this task together aside from Sherlock's offer of help. It had allowed him to calm himself slightly. If Sherlock was still willing to share whatever he was earlier, this time, he would listen.

The glass made a loud tinkling noise as it fell into the trash, settling amongst the rest of the week's refuse. John sighed, not really sure what to do at that point.

"That was your favorite mug, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked. John looked over at him. He had _that look_ on his face, the one that he had seen too many times before. When Sherlock looked like that, it meant that he was calculating everything about you at that moment and choosing his words with tact. In other words, John was sure that he said that at that exact moment for the precise reason that he knew that it would soften John's demeanor.

It worked. "Yes. It was."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. I can always get a new one. That's the kind of thing you _can _replace." John looked right into his eyes with a hardened pair of his own, trying desperately to convey everything that was on his mind. The detective looked back at him with those shining greenish blue eyes that reflected nothing but their owner's pity and… _was that remorse?_ John couldn't tell, but it looked like he was genuinely upset at John's discontent.

"Can I explain?" Again, he was speaking softly, almost as a whisper. He must have noticed the effectiveness this previously had. It still held its usefulness as John was once again rendered speechless and motionless. He would never get tired of hearing that voice. At that moment, he vowed that no matter how annoying or insulting Sherlock was being at the time, he was _never_ going to ask him to stop talking unless it was a dire emergency. If the past three years had taught him anything, it taught him to treasure each moment you had with a person, because you could never quite be sure when your time with them was going to be stolen away.

Sherlock took John's silence as an encouragement. "He was going to kill you and two others, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty, that is." Sherlock's voice grew strength and became louder. "I had two options. Jump or the order would be given to have you executed. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to come looking for me. I had gotten too big, John. I needed to disappear."

John still wasn't sure what to say, if he should say anything. In all honestly, what he really wanted was for Sherlock to start talking again. When he had first shown up, John didn't want to hear him speak, due to a combination fear that he was either a figment of his imagination or that he would be leaving soon anyway, and the pure, unadulterated anger he felt towards him. But now that he had given Sherlock the opportunity to _really_ talk… all he wanted was for him to continue.

Sherlock took John's continued silence as his cue to keep going. "Moriarty… My "plan A" was to manipulate Moriarty into calling off the order himself, but he shot himself right through the head, which I'm sure you've heard. With him dead, I had no other choice to resort to "plan B." I had seen this coming, so I already had put into place…certain precautions."

"And these precautions were?" John asked, finally finding his voice.

"Now, John," Sherlock said, with a slight grin. "Do you really want to know that?"

John thought for a moment before responding. "No. No I suppose I don't. One thing I can't quite understand though. I get that you were too big and that you didn't want me looking, because you had to wane from public view for a while. I get that. But why the _hell_ go through all the trouble of planting that phone on my desk at work? And how did you even get into the security system?"

Clearly, this wasn't something the detective wanted to talk about. "I was hoping you'd figure that one out. There were two reasons. First and foremost, if I had simply been sitting in the kitchen in the morning as you were waking up, I can't imagine your reaction would be pleasant towards myself or towards your own self. Drawing out my arrival allowed you to have time to acclimate to the idea. Secondly, in the event that someone was tracking me, I wanted to be able to back out of my decision to return. As it is, I've found there's been someone following me. I'm not entirely sure who it is, but they've become quite good at following me around. A couple of days ago, I think I lost them, but I wasn't sure for a while."

"Okay." John decided he would ignore the second reason for now. He'd talk to Sherlock about that later. Well, "talk" probably wasn't the right word…. "And the button?"

Sherlock appeared genuinely perplexed. "Button? What button?"

"Button. You know, the little envelope that had a little pea coat button in one of those bags they put the extra baubles in at the store?" Clearly, Sherlock didn't put the button there. John began to panic, remembering Sherlock's second reason for drawing out his return. "I mean, it was probably just a mistake. It was in an unmarked envelope that Mrs. Hudson found underneath the door earlier. It could've been from anybody." Even as John said the words, he knew he was doing a better job convincing himself than Sherlock.

"Let me see it."

"Um. Okay, if I can find it."

"John we both know that you remember exactly where you put it. An item like that, which you were so convinced until about thirty seconds ago would lead you to me? And you just put it down and forget where you left it? Come now, John. Don't try to play games with me. Let me see it. Don't worry. If this_ is_ from the same man I've been avoiding and he's putting things underneath the door now, you've been involved already, so there would be no point in my leaving."

Unable to see a flaw in the detective's logic, John sauntered over to the table in front of the couch and plucked it up off the wood, wincing slightly at the quiet scraping sound it made as it was pulled across the wood. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, looking through the holes into the light. Sherlock held his palm out and John dropped it into his hand. "It's exactly the ones that you have on that coat of yours. That's why I thought it was from you."

"It's not," Sherlock stated in a matter of fact tone, but he continued to examine the button. There was evidently more to the tale than the detective was letting on.

"What do you mean, 'it's not?' It looks _exactly _like them. Four holes, black, silver ring around the bend on the inside of the button." John was getting irritated. He was _positive_ he was right about this.

"Quite right," Sherlock responded. "But it's not exactly _like_ one of those buttons. It is, in fact, from the coat itself. I noticed it fell off about a day ago as I was climbing into the window in my room. It would appear my admirer was kind enough to return it." Sherlock got up and walked towards the door. John got up as fast as he could to join him. Sherlock picked up his coat and pointed to the place the button had fallen off.

"Here," he said, pointing to a place on the coat with some frayed threads. "It was this one. John, how much did you touch that button?"

"What?"

Sherlock gave him _that look_, the one that insinuated that he was insulting John in his mind right now. "If I was to attempt to pull finger prints off of the button, would I have_ any chance_ whatsoever to be met with success?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry. No, you wouldn't. I kinda held it in my palm and toyed around with it when I was contemplating why you gave it to me." John sighed and looked right up at the ceiling. Things didn't change so much, after all.

Sherlock looked slightly disappointed, but the emotion passed over his face almost in the same moment. "No matter," he said. "Whoever it was probably didn't leave any in the first place. They're much too careful for that."

The more John studied the detective, the more he was reminded of what they had shared not too long ago. Three years had indeed passed, but it was as if that they had affected everybody save the man standing in front of him. It was as if time had ignored him altogether or that he was immune to its effects. His eyes, which shone with the million color variations of a green and blue galaxy, appeared to have not aged a day, and his demeanor was as bright and condescending as ever while somehow managing to maintain enigmatic undertones. On top of this, the prospect of having a case to solve clearly enhanced his day and gave him something to look forward to.

Sherlock peered over at his doctor and noticed him staring. "Is everything alright, John?"

He blushed. "Yes, well. You have just come back from the dead." John was unwilling to admit to Sherlock what he had seen in his face or that he had been studying his face at all, but, when Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'Don't be so melodramatic, John,' he continued. "It's just… you haven't aged a day. You're just the same as before…."

"You know me. I try not to let the events of day to day life affect me too much. Caring, as we've discussed, doesn't help solve cases, but rather it is the main cause of impaired judgment." Sherlock looked down then, not meeting John's eyes. "In reality, I've had a lot to think about these past three years. I didn't realize how hard it would be."

"How hard what would be?"

"Life alone. Without you. I was lost without my blogger." Upon admitting this, Sherlock looked up and, while still not meeting John's eyes, peered to the wall on his left. "My life, which was so dull before, was changed in ways I can't quite understand once you entered it. In many ways, the version me that you see standing before you _has_ been dead for the past three years." As he spoke, John could see the true depth and honesty to what he was saying. Suddenly, there was a darkness in his eyes and John could practically feel the weight of Sherlock's plight on his shouldersl. The guilt of abandoning a friend, his only true friend, and feeling unable to explain himself for three years had haunted his mind for the past 37 months.

John cleared his throat and decided to attempt to regain Sherlock's positive attitude. This was the most consistently serious on an emotional level he had ever seen his friend. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and waited for him to look him in the eyes. "Yes, well, I'm not going anywhere if you don't. Now, about that milk. Why don't you and I head into town and get some more? Because it's all fine, Sherlock. It really is."

"What's fine, exactly?" John knew that Sherlock was perfectly aware of what he was referring to, but for some reason he required it being spoken aloud.

"Everything," John answered. "The disappearance, the phone…" he swallowed. "…the fall. It's all fine. Or it will be, in the future. I think I can handle what we have right now."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you. Now. About that milk. According to my watch, the store will be closed by the time we get there, so I have a better idea."

"And that would be…?"

"Dinner?"

John smiled at an old memory. "Starving."

Then the two friends left the flat, walking and talking the whole way to the restaurant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

_John stared at the top of St. Bart's hospital as his frequented dream was once more at an end. But this couldn't be happening again. John had seen the detective just the day before. He was back, wasn't he? Alive and well. Nevertheless, John's heart began to race in panic as his friend opened his mouth and breathed in his last, to once more say the words that presented a pain to him he imagined was similar to a broken femur bone. _

"_Goodbye, John." _

"_No. Don't – " John began but it was too late. The man stepped off the rooftop and fell gracefully into the street below as Watson ran towards him, wondering if maybe this time, since his friend had returned, in the waking world he'd be able to do something to stop the incident. He reached forward and ran faster but it didn't seem his body moved any closer to the sidewalk. In his attempt to move at a swifter pace, John fell and his usual biker swerved out of his usual course, biking even faster to ensure John was hit. It was then that he knew he was too late, once again shouting into the cold, London air – _

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted as he was violently yanked from his nightmare. He groaned, feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his soaking T-shirt. Rubbing his eyes, John was overcome with an all-encompassing feeling of disappointment in himself. Though his friend had returned, he hadn't quite believed it enough for his subconscious to abstain from haunting him with the memories of Sherlock's fall. Or… had he returned? John almost had decided he had dreamed up the previous day as well when he heard footsteps running toward his room. The door burst open to reveal a panting, unshaven Sherlock Holmes holding a gun, obviously wearing the first clothes that had touched his hands.

"John? What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock's voice contained a sense of urgency. "What's happened?" His eyes flitted across the room as he attempted to find something out of place. He brushed an unruly lock of his dark, curly hair out of his face and rested his eyes on John.

"Sherlock. It's nothing, it was a dream." John tried to repress a feeling of embarrassment in hopes of stopping himself from blushing.

"A dream."

"Yes. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get ready for work," John said, looking pointedly at the clock to his right, which promptly began to sound his alarm to get up.

"Quite right. I'll, ah, see you in the kitchen."

The door clicked shut behind Sherlock and John slammed the "stop" button on his alarm clock. He then bounded out of bed and into the washroom to shower, grinning a ridiculous, childish grin the entire time. _He was back, he really was back! _John took the world's fastest shower and almost nicked himself while shaving in his excitement to see his old friend again.

When he arrived in the kitchen, Sherlock was also completely dressed, having showered as well. Today he was wearing a purple button down shirt with a pair of black pants. Sherlock smiled at John and slid some eggs off of a pan onto a plate. He then handed it to John. "Good morning," he said. "I'm, ah, sorry about bursting in on you like that earlier. Highly uncivilized of me."

"It's fine, really. Sorry for…freaking you out or whatever. Where did you get the eggs? I haven't bought eggs in ages." John began eating the scalding food, forgetting how much he enjoyed a nice breakfast.

"Borrowed them from Mrs. Hudson. Well, I say borrowed… You've lost weight," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, looking pointedly at John's admittedly noticeably thinner physique.

"Yes, well, you're not exactly looking as well-fed yourself, I wasn't going to make a big thing about it." John knew that he hadn't been eating as well as he could have since Sherlock's absence. It wasn't that he was starving himself, it was just that he didn't feel like he _could_ eat.

His friend was unamused. "I haven't exactly had the opportunity to ensure that I eat on a regular schedule. Not that I ever ate on a regular schedule, but I digress. John, you shouted my name. Why did you shout my name earlier?" Sherlock looked as if he suspected the answer, but he wanted a verbal confirmation.

"It's no big deal. I'd rather not talk about it."

"John, how long have you been having those dreams?" the detective asked in a voice that demanded a response.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Now, I'm really sorry but I have to get to work. Thank you for the eggs," he said as he put the empty plate down into the sink. "When I come back later, you better still be here."

Sherlock opened up a newspaper and didn't even look like he was completely listening to John. "Yes, of course," he said in an offhand tone. "Now head off. Weren't you worried about being late?" Some things never changed.

"Yes. Well then, I'll see you later," John couldn't resist the smile that creeped up his face. He turned then and walked out of 221B, smiling like an idiot the entire way to work.

The first thing John did after arriving at work was check the results of the blood test he ask that Sally take. Repressing the urge to roll his eyes upon reading the results, he took out his phone and dialed the number Sergeant Donovan provided for contact.

The phone only rang twice before Sally picked up. "Hello?" she asked, clearly having just woken up.

"Hi, Sally, it's me," he said. "John, that is. I just got the results of your blood test." He stared at the italic word next to her name on the paper and once again repressed the urge to roll his eyes, knowing what Sherlock would say if he was here. If Sherlock had his way, Detective-Inspector Lestrade would be contacted with the information that two of his detectives were having an illicit affair and that there was proof of this, if only he could get Anderson to come in to take a test.

"And? Good news I hope." Sally was clearly nervous.

"Actually… I'm sorry, Sally, but the test results came back positive. Do you think you'd be able to convince Anderson to come in and take a test as well? Don't worry, Lestrade won't find out. Doctor-patient confidentiality," he said, mentioning that last part for his own benefit, as the concept of telling Lestrade about his employees' extracurricular activities wasn't entirely unappealing to him.

Sally seemed unsure about this. "Ah… I'll try." She didn't appear completely convinced with John's mention of confidentiality. John made a mental note to call Anderson himself in a couple of days if Sally didn't convince him. John then made a follow up appointment with her to discuss treatment.

As horrible as it may sound, the phone call with Sergeant Donovan was the highlight of his day. The rest of his day was incredibly monotonous, consisting of a few horrible child actors trying to stay out of school and a couple of mild cases of strep throat and the flu. John rushed through his paperwork at the end of the day, realizing he had to finish that today as he had neglected to do any of it yesterday. It was only as he was locking up his room that he remembered why he _didn't_ want to go home.

The dream.

John blushed contemplating what would happen if the exchange that was started earlier was to continue. He didn't want Sherlock to _ever_ know about the dreams he had been experiencing during his absence, and John had been banking on the fact that if Sherlock were to by some miracle ever return, the dreams would stop because the ultimate message they delivered was rendered false. However… John realized his logic in this was flawed. Because while the _ending_ of the dream had changed, the fact that John had been unable to save his friend when he needed him most was still accurate. And that realization cut him deeper than any other epiphany had in his life.

The walk home was uneventful, much to John's chagrin. He was hoping for something interesting to happen to distract him from thinking about the conversation he knew was bound to happen almost as soon as he walked through the doors of 221B Baker Street. Lying to Sherlock would be pointless, John knew. It was difficult enough to lie to him on a regular basis and with the emotions John felt regarding the dreams it would be impossible. Besides, even if he was able to convincingly lie to Sherlock it wouldn't last long, as the detective always found him out eventually. And then the conversation would happen anyway with a Sherlock with even more heightened senses, determined to observe and mentally record every last fact about the conversation.

But as John rounded the corner to Baker Street, he found his worries about the conversation were pointless. Outside the door there was a police car stationed, lights flashing. John ran in as fast as he could, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's questions about what had happened.

Standing on the door to the flat was an open-mouthed Detective-Inspector Lestrade. Evidently, Lestrade had just discovered Sherlock's reappearance. John wracked his brains to try to comprehend why the Detective-Inspector would be here so late unless he required Sherlock's intellect… and then it hit him. John was supposed to leave for drinks with him in exactly… _now_, John noted looking at his watch. With his friend's arrival, he had completely forgotten about his plans with Lestrade. _But_, John noted, that _doesn't explain the police car outside…_

"Evening, John." Sherlock was evidently going to try to make his rise from the dead a nonissue with the Detective-Inspector as well. His tone suggested boredom, as if he knew Lestrade's questions and didn't deem them worth considering.

"Sherlock." John's tone was quite contradictory to Sherlock's. While Sherlock's voice was the embodiment of apathy, his own tone was littered with several different emotions at once, not the least of which were irritation, sarcasm, and one which suggested repressed laughter. He couldn't stop himself from smiling at his friend, if only a minor smile. Lestrade noticed John's smile and instantly jumped to conclusions.

"Are you in on this?" he asked John. "How long have you known?" Lestrade sounded betrayed to a ridiculous level, as if John had just run over his puppy.

"Since… Last night actually." Lestrade's expression softened. "He showed up with a jug of milk. Don't worry, I punched him across the face already for you," John added in hopes of lightening the mood.

It worked and Lestrade chuckled. "Well, clearly you didn't punch him hard enough. I don't see any black eyes. Blimey, Sherlock. How did you do it? What happened? I just got the news from your brother yesterday, your name's clear. Not that I ever thought… Anyway, how did you do it?"

"It's a long story. Dull! I assume you and John had plans, seeing as I have no other idea as to why you'd be here without the knowledge of my return."

"We did, but… I had better get back to the station actually. I actually came to tell you I wouldn't be able to come," he admitted, turning to John. "I just came from a crime scene and I have to fill out some paperwork. On top of that, Sally Donovan called me earlier and said she has… well, that she's quite ill so she'll be out for about a month." John fought an impulse to burst out laughing. "I have to find a competent temp for her position."

"Good luck with that," Sherlock said sarcastically, picking up a book from the table and flipping through its contents, settling on a seemingly random page in the middle. Lestrade grimaced, knowing full well the less-than-stellar opinion Sherlock held of the IQ of his staff. "Goodbye, Lestrade. You and John can get drinks later."

John panicked. "Oh, well, we could still go out. I think Sherlock can survive an hour or so without me. And then…. You could get back to temp-searching later."

"No, I really had better go," Lestrade said, still looking betrayed. "We'll talk about this later, John. Sherlock," he nodded towards Sherlock and left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as Lestrade left, John started walking towards his room in hopes of evading Sherlock's questions, but was met with no success. "John," Sherlock began almost the moment the door closed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To bed, Sherlock," he responded. "That's what people do at the end of the work day, isn't it? Sleep?"

"Yes, people, but not you. Besides, you were so eager to go out and have drinks with Lestrade. Clearly you're not all that tired."

John was beginning to be quite irritated. "Yes," he said, "But now I've changed my mind. So I'm off to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."

He started to turn around again when the detective responded. "No, I don't think so," Sherlock said, putting the book down and motioning for John to sit across from him. After weighing his chances of being able to just go to his room anyway without his friend following him, he decided it was best to just do as he asked. John sighed and sat on the chair opposite of Sherlock, where he was now sitting with his hands placed together beneath his mouth. "How long?"

"I'm sorry?" John said, looking around the room, not quite able to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"I said, how long, John? How long have you been having those nightmares?" Sherlock said these words in a slightly condescending tone.

"Nightmares? What gave you that impression?" Strike one. That lie was too obvious.

Sherlock sighed. "Now, don't play games with me….."

"All right. They happen once in a while."

John's tone was clearly unconvincing. Strike Two. Sherlock pressed his thumb and his forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "John… I'm just trying to help."

"I know, but I really don't want it. Or need it." Strike three. His response was too defensive. John shifted his eyes over to his friend in irritation and noticed that Sherlock's were centered squarely on him, clearly drinking in every last detail of the situation, as John had predicted.

Sherlock didn't even have to say anything this time. All he did was sigh loudly and look at John pointedly, and John knew that he had most decidedly lost this round, per usual. John straightened up and sighed himself, wondering exactly how to start. He looked up at the ceiling. _You'd think,_ he thought in exasperation, _having had a therapist at one point would've made this easier. But it doesn't. The man before me is nothing like her. She was much less observant and I had no emotional ties to her. But __**him? **__Can I really tell him everything?_ He decided he would just jump right into it and hope for the best. He looked at his friend, settling on his dark eyebrows to give the illusion of looking him in the eyes.

"They've been happening since the day that you jumped," John said, "Or whatever you did. Every night for the past… about 37 months. The exact same dream, every night, over and over. It starts with me wandering towards the hospital and answering my phone. And then you say the exact same thing every night and I play my part because no matter what I do, I can't stop it. Not ever." John breathed in sharply, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in his eyes. He looked away, unable to bear the sight of his friend.

"I see… you somehow think that this is… your fault." Sherlock sounded fascinated and full of pity. The latter emotion forced a defensive response from John.

"No, no I don't think it's my fault. I just… I think that if I had been faster of mind or feet, something could've been different. Obviously now I know you're not dead. But…" John had an epiphany. "But that's not the point, not really. The point was how _slow_ I was. You were there for me, all the time. Looking out for me for things I didn't even know I needed looking out for until they were fixed or you were gone again, and the one time you need me… I'm not there." As painful as this was, it actually seemed to help a bit. Like ripping a band-aid off of your arm when you're a kid.

Sherlock smiled. "John, I didn't want your help. I wanted you to believe the lie."

"I don't care," John said quickly, although he did. Sherlock's admittance of his hope for John's belief in the falsehood cut him deep. "I didn't ask you to help me get over my psychosomatic limp, either, but you did. I wanted to believe that thing was there because it helped validate my leave from the war. But as soon as it was gone, I was grateful."

Sherlock's smile widened. "Are you comparing my fake suicide to your old limp? How quaint."

John was about to respond when Sherlock did something unexpected. He reached over to John and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. John hadn't noticed that a tear had escaped from his eyes which he had so tried to guard. John tried to ignore the feeling that was bubbling in the pit of his stomach at his friend's touch. "Yes. Well, I suppose it is," he finally managed. He looked away once more.

Sherlock pulled his hand away. "Well, John. I'm glad we had this talk. It's been quite… enlightening." John worried that he was referencing more than his nightmares. "Stop blaming yourself, John," he said, standing up. John followed suit.

Then the detective did something quite strange. In a single stride he walked over to John and wrapped his arms around him. Although John was surprised, he returned the gesture. "You're all I have, you know," Sherlock said. "Everyone else…Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson. They've made it quite clear they aren't going to forgive me for this. You were and are my only true friend ever. My only true anything ever."

John was unsure of what to say. "Yes, well. I'll always be here, no matter what. You know that."

"Yes," Sherlock said in agreement. "I'm beginning to understand that."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Two weeks had passed since the awkward evening confrontation between the friends, and Sherlock was still no closer to discovering who his mysterious follower was. He'd done everything in his control to try to trap the culprit or discover a mistake he (or she, Sherlock reminded himself) had made, but his efforts were to no avail.

And then there was Moriarty. Sherlock knew that John was still under the impression that his old nemesis was dead, and he was perfectly content with that. However, that did not change the fact that Moriarty clearly was not dead. A man like Moriarty, a spider in the center of a criminal network? No. A man such as that would surely have a way to imitate death convincingly even under close scrutiny.

In fact, Sherlock was rather unimpressed with his performance. A blood bag already bursting at the seams, hidden underneath the collar of his coat and resting against his neck was hardly the most original of his acts. Of course, Sherlock had his suspicions that Moriarty was the one tailing him, but something about this pursuit wasn't his style. Firstly, there was the button at the door. It was hardly delivered in a glamorous package and on top of that, Moriarty had already incorporated mysterious packages into his games with the detective, a tool which Sherlock highly doubted he'd utilize a second time. Secondly, a man such as Moriarty would no doubt be aware that Sherlock's name was cleared. Deciding to smear it a second time would take too much effort and at this point would not be something the public would willingly believe. They all thought they were so clever, the fact that they had already been duped once would be cause for a much more observant point of view the second time around. _Fool me once_, Sherlock thought with a smirk. And thirdly… John was still alive. Both times Sherlock had come into close contact with the consulting criminal, he had threatened John's life. Sherlock was conscious of the fact that if Moriarty really was after him again, simply endangering his friend's life wouldn't be enough. At that point, he would need to make a statement not just to Sherlock, but to the rest of the world. _A grand entrance. _

So what, then? Sherlock didn't have much to go off of. Although John had insisted that he'd played with the button and kept it in his pocket even at points, he had dusted it for prints and put pieces of it under in various conditions with various chemicals to try to pinpoint substances that would tell a tale, similar to the way he'd discovered where the children of the ambassador to the United States were located right before….

Sherlock decided he'd pick a different course of thought, knowing he'd spent far too much of his time mulling over those few months' events recently. He got up and opened up his old violin case. He plucked one of the strings, listening closely to the pitch that followed. _Flat, fifteen cents. _He turned the corresponding tuning peg gently and then plucked it again. _Still flat, _he thought_, about five cents._ He repeated this pattern until this string and all the others were perfectly in tune. Sherlock made a mental note to pick up new strings as soon as was convenient after remembering how old they were. Then, picking up the bow gingerly with one hand and rosin in the other, he rubbed the amber colored material across the fine cords three times and brushed his thumb across the threads to judge how well rosin was still working. Noting that it was fine, he set it down and began to play, allowing his arm and fingers to _become_ parts of the instrument. The music flowed effortlessly and exactly from his faithful memory, filling the flat with Bach's the fourth movement of Bach's sonata for solo violin in G minor.

He had been playing for about fifteen minutes when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He recognized them as Mrs. Hudson's. Sherlock sighed and pulled down the instrument from its resting place, and braced himself for one of his dear landlady's concerned speeches.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know you're having your afternoon tea," Sherlock said as she entered the room. "No, I am not going to stop playing."

"Sherlock, for God's sake it's noon, I haven't left yet for the day. Couldn't you at least wait until I was gone?"

"No, I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson. Violin helps me think by allowing me to do the opposite." The tiniest smile made its way onto Sherlock's face as he realized she would have no idea what he meant by that as Mrs. Hudson didn't play any instruments. She couldn't quite understand that by focusing on the music at hand, especially with a piece as complex as the one he was just playing, all other thoughts would subside. This didn't mean that Sherlock stopped _noticing_ things when he was playing violin (that would be absurd as he was always noticing things), but rather that his thoughts on major topics would be forced to take a back burner.

"Well," she said, clearly unsure of how to respond. "I'll leave you to it then." She left, and Sherlock was instantly filled with chagrin remembering his first encounter with her a couple of weeks ago. After John and Sherlock had returned from dinner the evening of his return, Sherlock requested that he walk in separately to introduce Mrs. Hudson to his return, knowing this way it would be less of a shock to her. John, although unsure of the idea at first, eventually conceded and, five minutes after he had entered the flat, Sherlock rang the doorbell. Mrs. Hudson answered, clearly expecting a package or possibly Lestrade to see John, and almost fainted from the shock. Sherlock walked through the door and was met with the screaming that he had expected to hear from her. He barely got three words in, but he understood why she reacted the way she did. Mrs. Hudson was a woman based on emotion. Loyalty was the foundation of her personality and she saw Sherlock's disappearance as an ignominy to that dependability. She had since become much more used to his presence in the flat and many of her dirty looks had subsided, however Sherlock was well aware that her somewhat malevolent feelings towards him had not completely subsided. She had also become somewhat cold to John lately, thinking he must have been in on this somehow.

Almost as soon as he heard the _click_ of the door shutting, Sherlock began to play again, this time choosing a much quieter, more relaxed piece, the first movement of Bach's sonata no. 2 for solo violin, hoping this would appease Mrs. Hudson. Regardless of what people thought about his emotions towards her, he truly did care for her. He had never gotten along with his biological mother and father, and in the duration of his time at her residence, Mrs. Hudson had been more of a true maternal figure in his life than his "real" mother ever had been. He not only recognized this fact, but was fiercely protective of her because of it, much in the same way, he imagined, ordinary people felt about _their_ mothers. This also, he concluded, must be where his somewhat rebellious yet sympathetic behavior towards her stemmed from. When she had complained about body parts being in the fridge, he placed them in jars, sometimes even putting paper around the specimen containers so she wouldn't have to see what was inside if it was something particularly 'gruesome.' When she had complained about him shooting his gun during the day, he had limited his target practice. Likewise, because she had complained about his stressful choice of music for violin playing, he chose a much more lyrical (albeit less entertaining) piece to focus on. As he played, Sherlock shifted his attention from the roughness and exactness of the rhythms to their dynamics and richness.

Although he was sure that his new choice of music was much more agreeable to Mrs. Hudson, a piece like this not only allowed him to focus on the _music_ itself, but it also gave him an opportunity to_ really_ _think_, something he had been avoiding with his much more complicated and hectic piece earlier. And, once again, his mind was drawn to a place he wished it would just stay away from.

The fall.

Sherlock knew why John didn't want to understand how he had done what he'd done. It was obvious. Much like Mrs. Hudson, John was a creature deeply rooted in loyalty so, like Mrs. Hudson, he couldn't deny a feeling of betrayal by his actions. However, unlike Mrs. Hudson, John had military experience and was from a family that couldn't exactly be called 'functional.' Problems in his family included his sister's drinking problems, his parents apparent lack of concern in his life, and the constant fighting of the members therein. To him, this was probably one of the normal kinds of things he had to find it in himself to let go of. John was used to having to forgive those he loved.

_Those he loved…_

Thinking those words gave Sherlock a strange feeling in his stomach and his heart. He'd noticed something strange in John's behavior towards him not only since his return, but prior to his disappearance. On top of that, John had apparently discouraged Mrs. Hudson from donating his old science equipment to schools and charities, something she would have undoubtedly done eventually without an outsider's involvement. John also evidently made a ritualistic pilgrimage to his room every morning in some blind wish for his return. Sherlock was well aware of the fact that his room was not exactly on the way to the kitchen, in fact it was very much out of the way. Why, then, would John spend the extra energy to check the room of a friend he _buried_ in hopes of a return? There weren't many kinds of people who would do something like that, and John, having been in the military and having seen a lot of death in his life not excluding the death of those he cared about, would have been used to saying goodbye. Yet something about Sherlock's death in particular had shook him from the very bonds of realistic thinking. Which left only a handful of situations left.

Situation one: John felt a very strong, platonic relationship with his friend, similar to the feeling one holds towards a family member such as a brother. Very possible, especially seeing as John didn't hold a very close relationship with his own sister in his nuclear family. Sherlock could, to him, be that "older" brother he never had.

Situation two: John held that Sherlock was an exceptionally good friend and had things that he still wanted to tell him. Completely platonic relationship, however a very strong attachment and feeling of duty and responsibility still existed. Possible, however Sherlock knew that he was _not_ in fact an exceptionally good friend to John Watson and he was sure that John knew of his shortcomings. This would also explain the guilt John felt in not being there for him in time.

Situation three: John was tipped off about his friend not being dead. Highly unlikely due to his incredibly emotional response at first seeing him.

Situation four: John… Felt more than a simple platonic friendship for Sherlock. This would explain the slight dilation in his pupils when Sherlock wiped the tear off of his cheek after their conversation regarding his dreams. It would also, coincidentally, explain the dreams and his unwillingness to accept the fact that the man he'd been in love with was gone. _However_, Sherlock reminded himself,_ the dilation could also be due to other things such as close contact, especially facial contact, and the dreams could be a product of two of the other possible situations. _

Sherlock sighed and put down the violin, sitting down on a chair in the middle of the room. Thinking about this exhausted him. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that John would kill him if he knew that he spent his time thinking about this kind of thing, but he couldn't help it. Solving puzzles was what he did, and this was certainly one of the more complex he'd encountered.

After some more meditation, Sherlock glanced at a clock and realized time had moved much quicker than he'd anticipated. John would be coming home soon. In anticipation of his return, the detective got up from his seat and boiled some water for tea, knowing his friend would be grateful for this when he returned.

John arrived home late, and Sherlock immediately took in his appearance. _Slightly unkempt hair compared to this morning, but it isn't windy and there's been no rain. Rough day at work, then. Small cut on the back of his hand, he must have nicked himself coming out of a cab or at the office earlier. Slight look of disappointment on his face; he'd been looking forward to something today… ah yes, today was Wednesday, he was supposed to go out with Mrs. Hudson to find new furnishings for her apartment. She must've cancelled on him. But…no, he cancelled on her, _he noted almost simultaneously, _the look of disappointment is mingled with a look of relief mingled with a touch of guilt. _

"Good evening," Sherlock said, looking away from his friend. "I see work was stressful," he added, trying to make conversation.

"Yes, well. It's the middle of the school year, so children are coming in left and right having convinced their parents they're ill. I've been yelled at by four sets of parents today telling me I can't do my job because clearly their child is sick and yet all of their signs are normal, so unless they're suffering from something _I'm _not qualified to diagnose, they're perfectly healthy." John sighed, pouring himself a cup of tea. Sherlock smiled at John's pride in his medical knowledge. It was, in fact, one of the only things (if not the _only_ thing) that John could claim superiority over Sherlock in.

"I see." Sherlock chose this noncommittal comment as upon seeing John's face, he was once again mulling over the four situations he had classified as possible earlier. Attempts to stop himself were futile, and, realizing this, he succumbed to the puzzle at hand, leaning forward in his seat and staring at John with his hands pressed together under his chin, deep in concentration.

He seemed close to an epiphany when his thoughts were broken by a single word from John. "What?" his friend asked in a somewhat irritated tone.

Sherlock simply looked at him with a perplexed expression. Did his studying him unnerve John?

"You're giving me… a look."

"A look."

"Yeah, like you're… trying to figure me out or something. You've been staring at me like that all week," John said, noticeably embarrassed.

"Have I?" Sherlock said, attempting to maintain his previous train of thought and failing.

"Yes," John said, still irritated. "You have. Can you stop?"

"I'll do what I can," Sherlock said in a voice that clearly indicated that he was simply saying this to appease John. Of course, he probably thought that it meant that he wasn't listening, although that would be ridiculous. Sherlock was always listening. His being in tune with his surroundings to the level that he was wasn't exactly something that he could just... well, _turn off_, even if he wanted to. Which he most certainly did not.

John apparently had decided to go to bed after that. Normally Sherlock wouldn't have allowed it as John obviously had not eaten a meal since breakfast, but clearly he had experienced a less than stellar day and, to avoid an unpleasant confrontation, he watched his friend place his cup in the sink and stride quickly towards his room. As he was on his way, he turned and looked at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked. "You've seemed to be… not yourself these past few days. You haven't eaten anything all day. And don't give me that speech about how digestion message with your thinking, because you've had nothing to solve." Sherlock almost laughed at how wrong John was, but repressed it and listened to the rest of what John had to say. "You've barely done anything with the eyeballs in the jar on the third shelf. Usually those things would be part of some grand experiment of yours. And don't tell me you're measuring rate of decomposition, because those are in formaldehyde in a refrigerator and, on top of that, you've already done that experiment."

"Experiments are needed to be repeated before a conclusion can be drawn," was all he could said, choosing to neither confirm nor deny the accusations John had made.

"You've done it three times, Sherlock. That's usually your limit." John was giving him a hard look, evidently waiting for a real response.

"Look, I'm fine. I'm just trying to figure out more about my new admirer." Sherlock was very clear about putting the word "new" in his speech when talking about his stalker. Although he was pretty sure this was not Moriarty, it wouldn't be the first time the criminal had surprised him, and Sherlock was still unsure as to if he wanted John to know that Moriarty was still alive and well.

Sherlock noted the expression of disbelief on John's face as he responded, "All right. Well I'm off. " He turned once more and continued to his room. Sherlock noticed that as he turned around his hand rose to touch his face. _Why do that? _Sherlock wondered. _Did he blush?_

Thirty minutes had passed since John's leave to his room when there was a knock at the door followed by a turning of the knob. Mrs. Hudson, then. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson? I trust your day went well. "

"Yes, thank you," she said quickly. "Sherlock, there's a package for you at the door. It's heavy, though, I'm not quite sure how to lift it. I already signed for it, just come and get it."

_A package at this time of night? _Sherlock looked at the digital clock on the wall, which read 21:30. Chances said that this was no ordinary package. An excitement rose in Sherlock's chest and stomach at the possibility of further contact with his enthusiast. He ran downstairs and noticed a rather dull brown, wooden crate sitting at the bottom of the stairs, which Sherlock promptly picked up and carried up the stairs. He set it down on the couch and started to open it eagerly, like a child at Christmas opening the biggest present under the tree, sure this was the one item they'd been asking for all year. After prying open the lid, he looked down and examined the contents.

There was only one item in the crate, and it was a rather outdated, bulky laptop, probably from 03 or 04, Sherlock estimated. "John," Sherlock said loudly, hoping his friend wasn't sleeping quite yet. "Come in here and have a look at this." The excitement and anticipation in his voice were clear. He hoped John would hurry.

Sherlock waited to further examine the laptop until his friend was beside him. "Package just arrived, addressed to me. It's old, probably from 2003 or 2004, but it appears to be mostly unused."

"Have you turned it on yet?" John asked, rubbing his eyes and kneeling next to Sherlock. His voice was groggy. Apparently Sherlock had awaken him. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would've felt at least a little sorry about that fact, but _tonight_ it barely fazed him as he was simply thrilled to share what would hopefully be the next step in solving this mystery with his friend.

Sherlock's smile widened at his friend's apparent interest. "Not yet. I was waiting for you." Sherlock couldn't help but notice John's mouth twitch upward at that. "Shall we?" he asked.

And, with John's nod, he opened the lid to the monstrous device and pressed the "ON" button.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

The screen lit to reveal several pages of green text as the computer booted up. The duo was then greeted with a log in page with the background of a newspaper reading "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS" alongside another which read "SHERLOCK HOLMES' NAME CLEARED: THE SHOCKING TRUE STORY". The username was "Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock stared at the flashing line waiting for him to type in his password. John looked at Sherlock, who seemed perplexed at the demand of a password. "Why?" he whispered, clearly disappointed. He lifted up the laptop and peered underneath to see if there was a clue on the bottom. He then grabbed the crate the outdated piece of technology had arrived in and scratched around the bottom, madly searching for clues even John could tell were not present.

"No!" the detective uttered in a half-scream and half-moan. "It can't be." He took a deep breath and poised his hands beneath his face again. _With his hands pressed together underneath his face like that_, John thought, _it almost looks angelic_.

John almost choked on his spit after thinking that. _Did I really just think that to myself? _He didn't have much time to consider that, though, as Sherlock madly began typing away at the password bar, muttering to himself.

"'Rei…chen…bach.' No. Okay. 'Sher..lock…' Okay, not that either. 'Richard…Brooke…' Also no. 'IOU…' Damn it!" he shouted as the computer notified him that it was now shutting off and he would have to wait at least 30 minutes before trying again. John enjoyed a moment relishing in the fact that Sherlock was getting a taste of his own medicine, having to guess the computer password, when suddenly a thought occurred to him.

"Hold on a moment," John said, "Did you just say "IOU?" IOU was Moriarty's thing. Is there something you're not telling me, Sherlock? Sherlock?" He repeated the detective's name after he failed to respond for about a minute, at which time he turned to him and pressed his hands to his temples.

"Jim Moriarty is not dead. Honestly, I'm not even impressed with his "death." Blood bags and a fake gun. More remarkable acts have been achieved by street performers. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. I don't think this is Moriarty, but I wanted to cover all of my bases." Sherlock closed the lid to the laptop and again pressed his hands to his temples, clearly under stress. "You should go back to bed, John. I don't think we're going anywhere else with this tonight."

"No, I'm not. Firstly, Sherlock, we're going to talk about this whole Moriarty thing and somehow we're going to talk about your trust issues with that," John said, and, noticing the unpleasant emotion on Sherlock's face with John's mention of '_trust issues'_, added, "That is, if you can stop being a machine for ten seconds." Sherlock was about to respond when John continued. "Secondly, for someone who considers himself a genius and all that, you missed something very obvious."

Sherlock was clearly perplexed and skeptical at John's bold statement. "What did I miss?"

"Newspapers. The background was made of newspapers. Who was the one person who didn't fake their death that would've had the most monetary and societal repercussions if your name was ever cleared?"

A look of recognition crossed Sherlock's face. "The journalist!" he shouted, "The one that Moriarty blabbed to. That's remarkable, John! Do you remember her name?"

"Of course. It was Kitty. Kitty…Riley," John said.

"Perfect," Sherlock said, clearly pleased. "And now… we wait."

The time passed slowly. John found himself looking at the digital clock on the wall about every thirty seconds as the two sat in silence, struggling to stay awake. About a three fourths of the time had passed when, as he was dozing off, John jerked himself awake and peered over at his friend. Sherlock was staring at him. When John noticed this, he found it difficult to look away. Not just because of the strange feeling in his heart, but because of the way Sherlock was looking at him. Specifically, what was happening with his eyes.

_Dilated pupils._

As soon as John noticed that he couldn't repress the urge to look down while simultaneously fight the urge to gasp, so he settled for the former, recognizing the fact that this was a far more objective reaction. While he was well aware that he was no consulting detective, John was confident that he knew what dilated pupils meant. Either Sherlock was genuinely frightened by the situation at hand or there was more to Sherlock's emotions for him than John initially thought. And judging by the look of excitement on Sherlock's face, he was not frightened.

"Something the matter, John?" Sherlock asked. "You seem rather… distressed."

"I'm fine. I… I'm a bit tired, that's all. Not myself," he muttered, still looking down. Sherlock didn't respond, but when John peeked up he noticed a smirk on his face and, as he looked down again, he heard the detective softly chuckle.

"What?" John demanded, noting his harsh tone.

"Nothing," the detective responded. "It's just… I never thought. _You, _John? _Me?"_

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," John responded somewhat coldly, still not looking him in the eye.

Sherlock sobered up with John's last statement and, upon regaining composure, said, "I highly doubt that. And, if that's true, even _your_ mind will catch up to it eventually. And, when it does… I'll be waiting."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's cryptic statement and ignored what felt like the small farm of butterflies in his stomach and peered over at the clock again, grasping at any opportunity to change the subject. "Time's almost up. Thirty seconds."

Without saying anything, the detective pulled the computer close to him again and, John could tell, didn't breathe until the thirty seconds were over. Then, with a single graceful movement, he pressed the "ON" button on the computer once more and folded his hands underneath his chin. The computer booted up slowly, and John kept noticing the detective sneak glances at him.

_What the hell is he doing? _John wondered. _And why do I get a strange feeling whenever he looks at me that way? It's almost like… But no. You've never felt this way about a man before, John. It's just playing with your mind because he's back and it's a miracle and you can't handle it. _

But John knew that was a lie. Even before the detective had disappeared he had felt like this about him. It was a foreign thing to him though, and it scared him a little. Not because of what people would think, but because of what _Sherlock_ would think. Sherlock, who spent most of his time either complimenting his own intellect or insulting John's, surely would think it was a ridiculous notion. On top of that, the very first time he and Sherlock and had dinner together, he had made it very clear that he considered himself to be "married to his work." John had heard that before, and he knew quite well what it meant, which was simply "_Not interested._"

The computer finished loading and once again the flashing light awaited a password. Sherlock greedily reached over to the computer and typed in "Kitty."

_Incorrect Password. _

"Okay," Sherlock muttered. This time, he typed in "Riley."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"_Welcome, Mr. Holmes." _

The detective grinned a childish smile. "Brilliant." John hoped that maybe his friend would maybe _thank him_ for actually being clever and observant enough to make the connection with the newspapers, but of course nothing of the sort happened. John sighed and once again resigned to the fact that Sherlock was a being of more silent inter-personal appreciation.

Once the home screen had finished loading, John noticed two things in particular: Firstly, it was a very generic windows background, and secondly, the only thing on this background aside from the menu at the bottom was a solitary folder marked in the exact center of the screen.

"Interesting…," Sherlock said. "What have you been noticing about this, John?" John took Sherlock's sudden fascination in what he had to say as his thank-you.

John stared at the screen for a while. "Well," he started rather lamely, "It's a very generic background, so whoever put this together either was in a hurry or didn't care and… The only thing on the screen besides the menu and the background is a folder in the center of the screen so… they like things to be symmetrical or equal." John cringed at how foolish that last assessment sounded and awaited his friend's response.

"Well, you're partly right," Sherlock said, clearly displeased with John's lack of zeal and vigilance this round. "You're quite correct in your assessment that those two things in particular are of importance in discerning our friend's character."

"But…," John prompted him when he didn't continue.

"But," Sherlock said, refolding his hands underneath his chin and staring squarely at the folder in the middle of the screen, "The two things are directly related rather than separate occurrences as you described them. The background _is_ rather nonspecific, in fact it's probably the default setting on this model. However, as the only thing on this screen (save the menu and the background) is the folder in the middle, this indicates that whoever set this up didn't care what it looked like as opposed to being in a hurry. Even on models like this there would be a "My computer" option available by default as well as a recycling bin and other options you expect on a laptop, especially," Sherlock lifted the laptop and inspected it, "One like this. It's a Sony, probably from 2004, and it would've been incredibly expensive. Whoever set this up took the time to remove all the default options on the home screen, something that would've taken a massive amount of time to complete and at least a little knowledge about computers from the time. The seemingly uncaring way this was set up also tells us that our friend is probably cocky, which, if I'm correct, will most certainly be to our advantage."

John sighed, frustrated with his own inadequacy as well as the wave of exhaustion that tackled him in that moment. "Okay. Great. So now that we're done psychoanalyzing the sender based on the way he set up the home screen to the computer, can we click on the folder?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Not quite yet. The password also means something. While it's clear that you were correct in your deduction of what the newspapers meant by being a clue for Miss Riley, I believe you were at least partially incorrect in _why_ it was her."

"Go on," John said, becoming increasingly annoyed with Sherlock.

"You and I both spoke to Miss Riley. Do you really think that someone like _her_ would have the IQ to follow me for months and then set up a little scenario like this? On top of that, her surname was the password to the computer. Did she really strike you as a woman who would appreciate being called by her surname? No. Someone of her intellect would have a much more dangerous position saved for her in this situation."

"You… Think she's the victim in all this?" John said, looking surprised. "But why would someone playing games with you bother to take someone you clearly don't have the fondest feelings for? I mean, isn't that kind of counter-intuitive? When Moriarty wanted to get to you, he took me, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. People you actually care about. And if this person has learned anything about you at all, or is nearly as smart as you say he is, he would know that Miss Riley doesn't _mean_ anything to you. If you lose her, then it's a bigger catastrophe to your ego than to your emotional state."

"Excellent questions, John. I'm glad you're beginning to ask the right questions." John took that as Sherlock's '_I have no idea what the answers are to any of those questions, so I'm just going to patronizingly compliment you and move on._'

John stared at the folder in the screen again, and then looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at the folder. John then looked back at the folder, and then looked back at his friend, who was still staring right at the screen. He repeated this a couple of times, growing more annoyed with each glance. "Well?" He asked after about a minute. "Are you going to open it or not?"

"Yes, of course I am," Sherlock said, and he slowly but surely moved the mouse over to the folder and clicked twice. Inside the folder was a list of documents for the notepad program on the computer. Most of them were a listed in a dark gray font, which the duo quickly discovered meant that they were unavailable at the present time. The only that looked "normal" was the first on the list, which the detective, after exchanging an excited look for John's hesitant expression, double-clicked.

"**THANK YOU, MR. HOLMES, FOR THE BUTTON.**

**I'M SURPRISED YOU DID NOT RETURN FOR IT UPON LOSING IT, I KNOW HOW FOND YOU ARE OF THAT COAT.**

**IN FACT, AS I'M SURE YOU'VE NOTICED, I'VE RETURNED IT. WHY? YOU'RE CLEVER. I'M SURE YOU'LL FIGURE IT OUT EVENTUALLY.**

**NOW, PAY ATTENTION. SHE WILL DIE UNLESS YOU MEET THIS DEMAND.**

**BELOW IS A CIPHER. SOLVE IT AND COME TO THE ADDRESS GIVEN.**

**AND, MR HOLMES, COME ALONE. WE WOULDN'T WANT ANYTHING TO HAPPEN TO YOUR DEAREST JOHN, NOW, WOULD WE?**

_**PUO QNCNB FN. HSNYHP HSU YUQHROFMNQBKYW WHQNNH. MKVL WUUQ, MKXNFNYH. GODVLBP.**_

**GOOD LUCK, MR. HOLMES."**


End file.
